I
"Mine, mine!" saith Love, "Deny me many times.
Yet mine that body wherein mine arrow thrills,
And mine the fugitive soul that bleeding climbs
Hunting a vision on the frozen hills.
Mine are her stigmata, sad rhapsodist.—
And when to the delighted bridal-bowers
They bring thee starlike through the silver mist
Of music and canticles and myrtle-flowers,
And the dark hour bids the consentless heart
Surrender to disillusion, since in all
The labyrinth of deed no counterpart
Can pattern Passion's archetype, nor shall
The chalice of sense endure her flaming wine,
Superb and bitter dreamer, thou most art mine."